


The Witch of the Wilds

by leonshardt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Gen, Storywatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 20:30:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonshardt/pseuds/leonshardt
Summary: Legend has it that long ago, the Witch of the Wilds dwelled in the dark woods by a kingdom far away.





	The Witch of the Wilds

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution for the Storywatch Zine, which was an amazing project to be a part of. If you look closely you might catch retellings from bits of old fairy tales.

 

Legend has it that long ago, the Witch of the Wilds dwelled in the dark woods by a kingdom far away.

Back then the nights were long and the roads were dangerous. Hunters and travelers alike would venture into the woods and never return.

“It’s the Witch of the Wilds,” the villagers whispered, “she eats anybody foolish enough to wander into her lands.” And so traders kept on the main roads. Mothers warned their children not to wander far from home after sunset.

In those dark days, in a castle by the edge of the forest, there lived a maid who served the castle’s lord with her only daughter, Angela.

Young Angela was a curious child. “Is there really a witch in the forest?” she asked her mother.

“Don’t be silly, child,” Angela’s mother said. “There’s no such thing as witches. The only things lurking in the forest are robbers and bandits. Now, help me sweep the floor.”

Angela took the broom and helped her mother sweep. The days passed like this.

A few years later, a sickness overcame the kingdom. Angela’s mother fell ill, and eventually died. Angela wept, for without her mother she was alone in the world. The lord of the castle was kind enough to allow Angela to stay, so she passed her days washing and cooking and sweeping, waiting for the kingdom to recover from the sickness.

A year passed, and still the kingdom did not recover. The villagers were frightened. Some grew suspicious, and a few began pointing fingers. Some blamed the Witch of the Wilds. Some accused their neighbors of treachery. _Witchcraft_ , they hissed, _Plague-bringer!_ Girls went missing in the night, their burnt bodies found in fields in the morning. It was a dangerous time in the kingdom.

Eventually they came for Angela. “Get her!” they cried. “She’s been acting strange, she must be up to no good!”

Angela fled. She had been sweeping the floor when the mob arrived, and she had nothing to defend herself with. A broom was hardly a match against torches and pitchforks. With nowhere to go and no family left to harbor her, she ran the only place the mob would not follow. She ran into the shadowy woods.

She fled until it was dark, until the trees cast deep shadows and the wind grew cold and she could no longer see the path. Angela stopped and looked around. Indeed, she was lost. She could not find her way back, and even if she did she would not be safe to return to the castle. Cold, hungry, and afraid, she continued deeper into the woods, using her broom handle as a walking stick. _If anything, a broom is better than nothing against a bear or a robber or a witch,_ she thought to herself.

She was just about to collapse from exhaustion when she smelled something enticing: roasting meat and burning sugar. She followed the scent until she came upon a clearing, and in it, a cottage. The little house had lights in the windows and smoke coming from the chimney, and Angela stumbled to the door to knock.

A woman answered, peering down at her. She was old but not ugly, and there was a strange marking under her eye. “Bah, you’re half frozen standing out there!” the old woman said, opening the door wider. “Quickly, come inside.” After a moment of hesitation, Angela followed her into the cottage.

The room was warm and well-lit, and immediately the source of the smell became apparent. Dishes upon dishes of food were heaped upon the table, roasted turkey and sausages and onion soup and fresh baked bread and plum pudding. Angela’s mouth watered.

“Sit,” the old woman said. “Eat.”

In the end, hunger won over caution. Angela put her broom down against her chair, and then she ate and ate until she could eat no more. Then she sat back, looking at the old woman. The old woman looked back at her silently.

Angela tried not to let her voice quaver. “Are you the Witch of the Wilds?” she asked.

The old woman snorted. “Don’t be silly, there’s no such thing as witches,” she said. The old woman introduced herself as Ana. She was an alchemist, not a wicked witch, and she kindly offered Angela a place to sleep for the night.

Angela looked down at her feet. “The people in my village chased me off. I have nowhere to go,” she said.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, but I expect you to make yourself useful in the meantime,” Ana replied.

That night Angela slept in the spare room. The wardrobe contained tunics and skirts that fit her well enough, if a little loose in the arms and legs. She wondered who they used to belong to. Exhausted by the day’s events, Angela quickly went to bed.

The next day, Ana put her to work. Angela scrubbed pots, weeded the garden, hung herbs to dry, swept the floor, and helped Ana cook meals. Ana was a wonderful chef. She could boil water with a snap of her fingers and chop vegetables with a wave of her hand. And when Ana wasn’t cooking food, she was brewing potions. She often enlisted Angela’s help: strain this mixture, grind this powder, fetch that herb. Angela worked and worked, day in and day out. It soon became apparent what all this work was for.

They came at sunset, although not all at the same time, and not every day. Travelers, peasants, old, young, rich, poor, all of them seeking a cure. They knocked on Ana’s door and begged her to heal what other doctors could not. Ana handed them potions and ointments and antidotes, and in return she received coin and food and anything the travelers could spare. Angela sat quietly in the kitchen and watched the exchange.

Afterwards, Angela asked Ana, “Where do these people come from? Are there always so many of them?”

“They come from all over the land,” Ana said. “But the plague has sent many more to my door in these past days.”

“Why not just heal them with magic?” Angela asked. “I’ve seen you do it. Surely it would be better than just giving them medicine.”

Ana shook her head. “You’ve only seen me do small tricks. Attempting anything bigger could have deadly consequences.”

Angela thought about how the plague ravaged her village. She thought about how the villagers succumbed to fear and superstition. “I want to learn alchemy then,” Angela decided. “I think I can help.” But Ana was not so easily convinced.

“Alchemy is not a tool to be wielded lightly,” Ana warned. But Angela insisted until Ana relented. “Fine, I will teach you tomorrow,” Ana said. “Now shoo, off to bed with you!”

Angela went to bed that night feeling as if she had found a new purpose. The next day, she finished her chores quickly so she could begin her alchemy training.

She listened intently as Ana explained: “You see, it is necessary to have a good foundation of knowledge before you can put it to any use.”

“But I don’t know anything about alchemy yet,” Angela said. So Ana went into the cupboard and came back out holding a pile of dusty books. She dropped them in front of Angela in a puff.

“Read these,” Ana said. Angela tried not to sneeze.

The next few days were spent reading. Angela was not a very fast reader, for she had never had the opportunity to practice much, but she studied diligently. Some of the books had pictures of various plants and herbs, but she could only recognize a few. So Angela took the book and went outside to Ana’s garden to examine the plants growing there.

She had wandered in the very back of the garden when she spotted a lump in the ground. As she drew closer, she saw that it was a small headstone. The small grave was modest, but it was well-kept and flowers grew around it.

Later, Angela asked Ana about the grave. Ana sighed. After a moment, she said, “I have many regrets that are not easy to talk about. A long time ago I attempted an enchantment that went very wrong, and my daughter paid the price. I have not attempted such a thing ever since.” Ana’s voice was somber. “Remember this, and never use magic for anything important in this world,” she said.

Angela thought about Ana’s words. Indeed, the old woman did not teach Angela much in the way of enchanting, only enough to brew and stabilize potions. It was clear she was too reluctant to show Angela any more. If Angela wanted to learn real magic, she would have to teach herself.

Every day Angela scrubbed, weeded, swept, and cooked, and helped Ana brew potions. When sunset came, she helped distribute the various concoctions to travelers. When the last traveler had left and the moon had risen and Ana headed to bed, Angela took out her books and studied magic. It was a slow and difficult process, but she persisted. If she could only learn enough to prove Ana wrong, she could fix all the problems in this world. She found her spell; she only needed the right circumstances to cast it.

Angela waited for a night when the moon was full and the night skies were cloudless. On that evening, after Ana went to sleep, she crept outside to the garden. And in the garden she stood before the small grave, summoning magic for the spell. It would surely work. She would prove it. Magic burst from her body, and in its wake a shadowy figure emerged from the grave dirt.

A ghostly purple aura surrounded the girl standing in front of Angela. She had grey skin and a strange marking under one eye. She stared into the distance, unseeing, neither alive nor dead. Angela gasped and clapped her hands together; her spell had worked. She led the girl to the house, careful not to make any noise as to awaken Ana. But when she opened the front door, Ana was rushing toward them.

“What happened?” Ana cried. “I felt a dark magic in the middle of the night.” When Ana saw the shambling corpse behind Angela, she went still with shock, and then erupted in anger. “What have you done?”

“I brought her back to life,” Angela said.

Ana shook her head in anguish. “You made a monster. I can never forgive this. Leave my home, and never come back.”

Angela scowled, and turned away. If neither the kingdom nor Ana would have her, then she would make her own path. She took her broom, her only possession, and enchanted it to fly. Then she went outside, perched upon her broom, and simply disappeared into the night sky.

To this day, nobody knows for certain what became of her. But legend has it that the Witch of the Wilds still roams the dark woods, and only the foolish or foolhardy dare to seek out her help. Some even say that when the night is clear and the moon is full, you can hear the moans of the risen dead and catch a glimpse her soaring through the starry sky.


End file.
